


Watching

by geniewithwifi



Series: Hero Quintessence [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oliver's POV, Post-Season/Series 04, Summer of Unbearable Sexual Tension 2.0, post 4x23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:04:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniewithwifi/pseuds/geniewithwifi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s by his side when everyone else left, even though she has nothing holding her back. (A small voice whispers that he’s holding her back but he quickly quiets it. Hope right now would do more harm than good.) She’s here, fighting, showing that despite all her words and aloof air, she still cares. About him or the city, something. Felicity was still here, close to him, where he could touch her.</p><p>Where he could watch her.</p><p>So he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheerUpLovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheerUpLovely/gifts).



> For the MTV SOTY Reblogging fest happening on Tumblr. If you have a tumblr, go reblog this fic [ "HERE"](http://geniewithwifi.tumblr.com/post/147450626908/mtv-vote-now-for-ship-of-the-year-by-liking-and)
> 
> Pre- Season Five. 
> 
> And as always, reviews are well appreciated, but not required.

He couldn’t help but watch her. 

Throughout the years his eye had been trained by every movement she made. The flick of her ponytail, the random tapping of her fingers on the table or keyboard, the swirl of her chair. Oliver had watched her, with longing, with happiness, with regret. They’ve been through so much  _together._ Despite his every mistake Felicity had always believed in him. She had supported him, though he had been wrong. 

She had trusted him even when he decided to trust Malcolm Merlyn.

Now, everything was different. 

She had finally given up on him. She had walked out on their relationship, stating the doubts that had gone through his head constantly ever since the day he slept with his father’s mistress. The fact that he didn’t deserve her, that she would get hurt, that he wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ change. She had convinced him that these thoughts didn’t matter. That they would get through all the hard times, his struggles, her struggle as they always did.

Together.

Turns out he was wrong.

But he still watches her. She’s by his side when everyone else left, even though she has nothing holding her back. (A small voice whispers that  _he’s_ holding her back but he quickly quiets it. Hope right now would do more harm than good.) She’s here, fighting, showing that despite all her words and aloof air, she still cares. About him or the city, something. Felicity was still here, close to him, where he could touch her.

Where he could watch her.

So he does.

Every second of every day he watches.

It’s painful, though, when she starts moving on. When she grins down at her cellphone, then gives that small laugh that should used to give him. When she cancels their weekly big Belly Burger  friends time ( Felicity won’t let him call it a date—even if it’s a friends date) to go out with this guy she met at a tech store.

 He watches her as Tim and her date—for months. He watches her as she breaks down in month 4, heartbroken because another asshole like him decided to use her heart like a punching bag. He suspects that he cheated on her—Felicity refused to tell him anything. Probably too worried that he would do something rash and reckless (he’s mayor now—reckless does not give him good ratings). He watches as she shoves her precious R2-D2 retro mug that Tim the Asshole gave her; watches as she hurls it across the room, over the railing to where it smashes in bits and pieces.

 After she goes home for the night, he goes and cleans up every shard, watching as the metaphoric heart of his beloved gets swept into the trash.

 He watches her when she’s walking confidently, in heels, a bright smile on her face until it crumples in pain. Her legs give out and she falls to the floor. Sometimes the chip malfunctions for a second—it is after all still a prototype—and her paralysis comes back in full force. He watches ash she suffers in pain, her legs numb and unresponsive under her. He watches anxiously, dying to go to her, to help her, to lift her up as he once did before. But if he makes a move in her direction, she wards him off, a hand in the air keeping him away.

 He watches in agony as she drags herself with her arms to the dais, grasping the rails. He watches as tears slip down her face as she braces against the dead weight of her legs. The by-product of his life and the choices he inflicted upon her because he loves her. IF he didn’t love her she would be safer—and probably still be able to walk without aids.

 Oliver watches—until he can watch no more.

 In spite of that hand in the air, he still cares. He still loves her and even though she walked away, they were still friends. And friends, partners, teammates, helped each other.

 Carefully he lifted her up, cradling her against his chest, the warmth of her body braced against his own. He took her to her chair, then proceeded to massage her legs, from the mid-thigh--- he tried not to think about the last time he touched her thigh like this. It was more than platonic reasons—all the way down to her ankle and back up. He did it, watching her, supporting her through this trial of hers.

 He watches her as he sits on the floor, rubbing his hands on her legs for close to thirty minutes. When the feeling comes back, when she can move her legs with no pain, he reluctantly sits back, heart pounding.

 She reaches out and touches her hand to his face, his whiskers scratching against her soft palm. The blue in her eyes is bright again, not dulled with hurt, and she smiles. It’s not the smile he absolutely loves, the one that’s reserved for him and him alone, no. It’s a smile of a brave face, the one he practices in the mirror before facing the press and the paparazzi, because he just knows that they’re going to hound him with all the questions about him and Felicity. It’s been months and they still won’t let them go. He understands the feeling all too well.

 The smile hides the heartache, it soothes the emotional wounds deep inside. It’s a fix all for something incurable. That’s the smile she has and it makes Oliver’s hope rise a tiny minuscule bit.

 Her hand falls from his face too soon and he laments the loss of warmth, the echo of the intimacy they once shared hanging and falling away. But his eyes never leaves her. Even when she utters a heartfelt “Thank-you, Oliver.”, and the soft smile is different this time, a shadow of _his smile._ That special smile. He watches her, because she is his whole world, his everything, his always.

 And by watching her, he realizes that, in her own way.

 She watches him too.

 


End file.
